


Momentary Respite

by Naptastic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Brotherly Affection, England does a stupid, Friendship, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Little bit of graphic injuries, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, War sucks for everyone involved, Whump, while America broods nation angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naptastic/pseuds/Naptastic
Summary: After a conversation with a stranger, England does a bloody stupid thing; he joins the military secretly. America, tired of the war, asks a few questions to himself 9000 kilometres away.[OR: England does a stupid, America broods, and they somehow get through it]





	Momentary Respite

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Neha](https://www.instagram.com/nehadotart/) for beta-ing and editing this!

It was a stupid decision. A stupid decision based off hungover, regret-filled memories of a nostalgic night. 

His vision was hazy, and he was sure he had vomited in a bucket somewhere, but he remembered _it_. That conversation with the old man he didn’t know at a tavern he wasn’t used to. Their traded dialogue, and tales of regret, their epic journeys that still resulted in the both of them at that bar. The old geezer’s last words before leaving the establishment,

_“Ah, the what-if’s in life. ‘Wish I could help with the war effort, though, haha. So many young folks risking their lives right now…”_

A bloody stupid decision. Yet, there he was, scrawling out the name Arthur Kirkland on a faded piece of paper and meeting the eye of his instructor.

Because he couldn’t just _not_ do anything after that. The words would ring and ring and ring in his head till he went insane, because England’s supposed to be responsible for those lives. Because he’s supposed to prevent deaths, not sit in headquarters all day, _trying_ to help.

Because trying isn’t good enough.

So he lined up with the rest of the cadets, and resolved to keep to his absolutely, utterly idiotic idea.

The training period was hauntingly reminiscent. England knows all the steps. He knew how to act the part of the naive, he knew which bullets to miss and which to land, he knew how to stave off a growing despair. England remembers a time when he never needed to fake these actions (sometimes he still can’t - not the last one).

He climbed the military ladder like a churchmouse - quiet and ordinary. If England is able to sew his lips shut and keep a lie, his secret will be sealed in a glass bottle and safely depart into the ocean. Nobody knows his true identity and nobody will. 

Never has he nor will he ever be able to prepare himself for the news of demise, but he tries. England tries oh-so-hard to be passive of the lives around him, yet he can never prepare himself. 

His demons hiss to him in the dead of night - perhaps it would be easier to not make friends. He never gives into temptation, for if he did, he would no longer be a nation of the people.

And now here he is - Lieutenant Colonel - on the front lines, bracing for the gunshots and gore. His troops are a mixture of dread, delight and nervous excitement as they face their first battle - England is none. All he can feel is an impending anguish as he waits for the cadavers to build upon the ground.

“Sir, they’re coming!”

A young soldier taps him on the shoulder and quietly hisses out the words. He’s new to war, (He racks his head for a name. What was it? Oliver? Owen?) England can tell by how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed he looks; the war-torn ones tend to lag behind, fire still alight, but never the same. Camaraderie, brotherhood, perhaps even patriotism (England doesn’t deserve it, he never did), it pulls them back into the fierce tug and pull of battle. 

England nods at the boy and ushers him back into position. 

England surveys the oncoming storm with forced apathy. An array of men, canons, and artillery line the opposing side of the trench, and they seem still, quiet. The first shot will be deafening, and signify the start of a long, drawn battle. 

The clouds stain grey as rain begins to drizzle ever-so quietly. It interrupts his thoughts, its pace slow but steady, a waltz in of itself. England looks up to the sky, raindrops sliding down his face, and sighs. How fitting.

He hopes that Oliver (or was it Owen?) will survive, but hope is never the answer in places like this. He looks back on his soldiers, ready, but not really. England forces a smile and faces them, their eyes filled with naive determination.

He raises his gun to the stormy skies, and screams with all his might,

“Let’s give them hell!”

The regiment rallies in cheer and the crowds roar.

___-___

_Bang_

The ringing in his ears tunes out the cacophony of blood and bullets as England instinctively touches his abdomen.

He’s been _shot_.

England releases a loud curse as he spots the gleaming scope that just aimed for his life. Blood pumping, he takes aim and with a loud crack, the soldier falls. 

Not for the first time, he wonders if Germany feels the same as he does when he sees his men fall.

It hurts.

The adrenaline suddenly wears out and he collapses into the feculent trench. The sound of shooting does not help his bout of vertigo as he grasps the marshy soil. He wants to vomit into the rain-soaked dirt, and he doubts that it would change the consistency of the mud. His white gloves are stained a vermillion red as he pathetically rolls onto his back, covering the wound with his hand. Grime covers him like a second skin, and it immediately rubs into his wound.

_Idiot!_

His mind reprimands him in earnest as the headache continues. 

This is not his first war, not even his fifth; he is beyond such mistakes. He knew the sniper was there, he knew that he was the target, _so why had he not dodged?_

The pain is _blinding_.

Not for the first time, England ponders his death but that’s silly.

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland _will not_ die.

Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirkland _cannot_ die.

“Colonel!”

The andante beat of the storm had long quickened to an adagio, muffling the shocked gasps of his subordinates. England tries to reassure them by standing, but fails spectacularly and collapses onto the side. 

Squinting, they come into focus as one shuffles his way across to him. The squelching of the mud is barely heard under the blasts from artillery and the thrumming of rain. All the more, it drives England closer to his breaking point. The soldier’s uniform is filthy and worn, torn on the side, a bullet graze on his left arm. England recognises him as Oli-wen (He gives up on remembering his real name) as the man crawls through the trench with fatigue. His eyes sheen with worry and he edges closer and closer to England.

Why is he doing that?

All wounds pass with time, and England has experienced worse.

It doesn’t stop the edges of his vision from darkening.

With a split moment of clarity, England realises with horror what this fight is. He looks at the other side of the trench as he lies there, unable to move, pitiful and weak, and sees, for the first time, how unmatched in skill they are. It has been an uphill battle, and with this injury, a boulder was just pushed straight down into his camp.

He curses himself once again, because he’s a pathetic fool.

“Don’t.”

England’s voice is shrill and laced with pain, but the order still remains. The soldier ignores him and continues to beckon a nurse over.

It makes him happy that people still care for him.

This war is his fault, is it not? He is, perhaps, not the instigator, but certainly an active participant. No matter what people say, he has as much fault in this as Germany.

If they knew, he was sure they would leave him to die without a second thought. Patriotism is only a feeling - it will not bring back the dead, or heal the maimed, or even treat the sick. England does not deserve a word that means loyalty to him, because he has done nothing to aid the people who give him that very loyalty.

“Retreat.”

He tries to steady his voice and shoves the soldier aside, ignoring the agony his innards feel as he sways in an attempt to stand.

“Are you insane? As your soldiers, we cannot - no - we _will not_ abandon-”

He curses this war with everything he has. All he wants is peace. Peace, quiet and happiness. 

Is that too much to ask for?

“ _Retreat._ ”

His men’s lives comes before any stupid war. Their lives are first priority. The pragmatic part of his brain chastises him for such sentimental thoughts. Perhaps one as America would think of it wise, but he is old enough to understand not. He is experienced enough to know that all will meet their end, if not here, some place else.

But he’d kick and scream before he let that happen to his regiment. Not here, not anywhere on this cursed battlefield.

“Are you mocking my abilities?” he snaps, though the lack of bite is apparent, “If I say to retreat, then you _retreat_.”

He murmurs the latter of his sentence, and his men warily gaze at each other. He smiles, and shoos them off with his hand. His troops are bloody twits, but they are as tired of this as he is. 

With a salute -

 _“_ Understood. _”_

\- they run back and he ignores the bass voice yelling through his one of his two-way radios to get his troops _back fighting_. 

He can do this alone. It is not the first time he has performed such feats. 

Through his blurred vision, he forces his back straight, and he holds his head high. He digs around the muddy trenches, scented with death, for a gun. 

The bullet burns inside of him and he just wants to scream and cry, but he has a battle to win, so he will not. This is not the worst he has faced, he will survive this.

_Just because you have survived worse, does not mean the pain leaves, does it now?_

The rain’s rhythm increases do allegrissimo and pounds on his body like an unforgiving foe. It rips open England’s wounds, and swallows him into the ground, the soil opening its jaws as if a starved dog. His head thrums along to its beat, the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of England’s heart reverberating through his skull.

He bares out his blood-soaked teeth and out rises a feral grin. 

_Ignorethepain-ignorethepain-ignorethepain-_

He dodges a bullet as the enemy begins to fire once again. 

He is a nation. He is built to survive anything and everything. He can do this.

England charges across the blood-soaked graveyard, and begins to shoot without care. He hears swears in German but ignores it as he continues his dance. Between his dagger and his gun, he has killed too many for mercy. The headache intensifies to an excruciating degree as the thunder of bullets hail at him without care. 

He bites the inside of his cheeks and swears. His vision fades to black, but before anything else, he spots a grenade that had tumbled out of a dead-man’s satchel.

The loud explosion he hears confirms the deaths of an extra few. The blast gives him a fresh rush of adrenaline; he stands and reloads his gun.

He is so tired of this. He wants it to _just end_.

He does not know how long it has been, but his strength finally wanes and he collapses onto the red-stained dirt. 

_No!_

_He can’t stop!_

There are people to protect and if he fails now, then this will end in more than the death of a few troops. The world is at stake with this war and his panic rises to a fever pitch. 

England is an idiot! A bumbling, stupid idiot! He needs to win this, when did he lose sight of that? 

_Stupid stupid stupid!_

He has never been able to save lives before, so what did he think was different this time? There will always be losses in war, so why did he try to prevent that? 

He’s thought of policies, and he’s tried to negotiate and he’s fought fate with teeth and claws, but it has never helped, never succeeded. England has tried over and over and over again to prevent the inevitable, but it has never ever changed a thing. It’s as natural as a tree shedding leaves in Autumn - _it will always happen_.

There is no request for an encore to the torrent. It seemingly silences itself with resounding fear and though the sky remains brooding, no drops of water fall. Quiet stillness declares itself victor on the battlefield, no one to object to its claim. 

He tries to push himself off the ground and stave off more soldiers but the pints of blood he has lost firmly disagrees with that idea.

He awaits the pain that is to come, the German orders and their surprise when he is alive. The torture will continue long after that, but he can endure that later. This is now, and he is anticpating it with dread. But it never occurs.

He waits and waits, but nothing happens.

The silence is even more terrifying than the noise.

It never comes. Before long, England has come to the realisation that he has forced enemy retreat and a phantom lump lifts from his chest. He can almost feel the broken bones and punctured organs as he tries to sit up and winces when he spots knife cuts and bullet grazes. Pain cocoons around his body and his vision flickers into darkness, red oozing out of everything.

“...”

England wakes up to a horrible headache and the buzzing of another of his walkie-talkies.

“Yo, Britain, whassup?”

The temerity of America’s voice is overridden by the devitalised tone that comes with war.

_There’s so much blood._

“Quite alright, _thank you_.”

_Everything hurts._

“Ah, that’s a shame-”

Brat.

“But hey, HQ here, has been normal!”

England wonders what command has been yelling about. 

America’s personality is as abrasive as always, and if nothing else, a drop of water in a lake of fire.

Pain spikes through his abdomen as he tries to sit up. A hiss slips through and America responds immediately.

“Hey, Britain, you alright there? ...Where are you, anyway? It doesn’t sound like British HQ - not enough muttering (or tea sipping). I swear, if you don’t answer me-”

“Just. Rosy.”

He grits his teeth and fails to stand. He should stop trying and wait for the nearest patrol to carry him to safety, but obstinance tosses that choice out the window. More concerns are voiced by America, but England can barely hear him through his headache and agonising pain. 

He lands on all fours and releases the electronic from his hand. He can’t contain the coughing fit, so he’ll at least spare America the pain of listening to it.

_Bear with it, it will disappear soon enough, it always does._

“Britain? Brita-England? ENGLAND?”

He flips onto his back once again, closes his eyes and blindly paws at the electronic. It takes a few tries, but he manages to press down on the button

“I’m fine…”

His voice is too weak for anyone to believe that lie.

“I’m fine, git. You worry too much.”

A soft chuckle comes from the other side.

“Don’t you always say I only care for myself?”

“Obviously.”

America chortles but his voice is taut with worry. England knows it all too well and he wishes he did not.

“I promise I’m hale, okay?”

There’s a pause, and then with a grumble,

“You and your stupid vocabulary…”

This time England returns with soft laughter, alongside a condescending ‘hmph’. The radio device stutters and is a constant annoyance as it flutters in and out of conversation but the on-and-off banter (It starts with America complaining about how England shouldn’t be allowed the push-to-talk function, and somehow ends with a heated debate over Disney’s adaptation of Snow White) is a strange ambience. 

It compares to the pitter-pattering of rain that had so often lulled him to sleep on worrying nights in London. The radio flickers once again, but England can hear a stolid voice of a stranger in the background.

“Sorry dude my team needs me, talk to ya later!”

“Use proper Engli-”

The crackling buzz of the radio appears once again, but England knows that America’s chipper voice will not reappear on the other end of the line. 

They have a war to win, afterall.

His burning irritation melts into warm affection and England closes his eyes to reminisce upon simpler times. A time when America was tiny and dependent. He thinks of how grown-up his little brother has become and smiles. 

It truly has been an eternity since then.

___-___

America rubs the sides of his temples as he sits through the dreary meeting. 

_This is important_ , he lambastes himself, yet they _always_ are. 

That’s what war is like, the slightest movement by the enemy or an ally can turn the tides. It doesn’t mean it isn’t _boring_. 

If England or even Prussia were here, they would scold him for such childish thoughts. But Prussia is his enemy and England sounded like he was a drowned rat. It aches, thinking about it… 

“...rica?”

America perks his head up and they look expectantly at him. The map in front of him paints as gloomy a picture as one might think and he squints ever so slightly to try and weave together what the general was asking. Someone on the left pitches in an idea instead, and America shoots him a grateful glace.

He pays the meeting more attention after that, adding his own commentary and notes as the war-hardened, battle-scarred men discuss depressing news and downcast reports. 

“America, what do you think of this strategy?”

“Hm, nah. Not enough fireworks involved”

The man seems to raise his eyebrows without any actual change in his facial expression. America is impressed.

“Y’see, we don’t have enough rations to supply travel there.”

Everyone in the room hums in thinking, and America cups his face into his left hand, doodling with his right. The meeting is boring - but he can think of much worse things to endure. 

They finally decide on a route and end the meeting. Satisfied, everyone leaves the cramped, stuffy room except for America.

He slams his head on the long desk, and heaves out a loud sigh. The wood is bumpy and uncomfortable and makes his handwriting look like a five-year-old’s and his headbutt is a form of juvenile retaliation. Exhaustion piles up like his never-ending stack of paperwork, and America thinks of the last time he had slept. Insomnia haunts his nights, but he does not begrudge it as it enables him to finally complete his menial deskwork.

He stretches his arms over the width of the table and leans his whole upper body on it. Yawning, he closes his eyes and lazily taps the side of the table with his fingers.

He can almost hear France remark with amusement how he looks like a stretched out cat when he does that.

America’s heart strums a pained chord, and a homesickness for his friends suddenly emerges. Mostly, he wants to be around _nations_ . His people are what make him whole, but they will never understand what it means to be like… like _him_.

America is the hero, and as such, he will shoulder all the burdens that come with that title. He wants to scream and cry and even finds himself sometimes yearning for England but as number one, he needs to be strong and brave. He needs to be the pillar of light when nobody else is there to be it. His soldiers need it. His citizens need it. 

What happened to the promise? The promise that there would never be another Great War-

Why couldn’t he keep such an easy promise?

_“America, such visceral thoughts will be your downfall.”_

England’s words clear as a bell in his ears, and for once, he finds himself sadly agreeing with that statement. He remembers England’s apathy the first time he accompanied the older nation to war; how unsettling it was and how much disgust he felt for the country. 

How he said those words as America cradled one of his dying soldiers. 

_“Are you saying having feelings makes me immature?!”_

England only looked at him with a pained smile before trudging forward. 

America tilts his head back and draws a deep breath.

_Does it?_

It’s a question that lingered continually after every war, because he knew the answer once. He doesn’t anymore.

He jerks from his sprawled position as a scientists gently pokes his shoulder.

“Sir, do you mind inspecting something new?”

America cannot help but think that this misplaced sense of respect will do no good to anyone. Or maybe they’ve been pretending since forever.

“We hope this will win us the war.”

They always do. Always hope. Hoping and hoping and hoping for the misery to pass. America replies ever-so cheerfully,

“As long it drives back the villains, I’m fine with it!”

The scientist smiles, and it seems he’s been put at ease. America is the optimistic hero, even if it is sometimes a facade. He has long since realised that childlike cheer puts those who are hardened to ease. 

He has the urge to laugh; always a catch 22. America is young and cheerful, yet he has slain millions and is older than all of his generals combined. He is a powerful nation, but he cannot prevent the death of his people.

America is the hero, but does that mean he needs to be the villain of someone else’s story?

He suddenly feels a wave of exhaustion and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Oh, how he wishes the world could be as simple as the black-and-white cartoons shown to children. Then again, he also wishes for everyone to have a happy ending, so he knows both those thoughts are folly. 

America’s longing for his friends doesn’t fade.

The distinct crackling of a radio catches his attention, and he listens with half an ear.

“... an anonymous soldier managed to single handedly drive back Germany’s forces…”

.

.

.

_Idiot!_

“Sorry pal, gotta run!”

America hears the scientist call out his name in an attempt to stop him as he bolts down the halls

___-___

He wants to scream, but the constant tang of metallic silver makes his tongue feel loose and floppy in his mouth. His abdomen feels as if someone lit a fire in it and there are twinkles in his peripheral vision every time he blinks.

His hands feel sticky with blood and they shake when he tries to move them. The crusted mud that used to be sodden on his uniform has now dried as the sun peeks through the clouds to wave hello, only to dart off just as quickly as it came. It wraps around his clothes like rope, binding him to the floor as if heavy metal chains, taunting him as if his multitude of injuries are not enough of a blight.

The world seems hazy. Hazy haze haze. (Is that really a word?)

The bleak landscape’s story is one he tries to change as he lies there. Perhaps it was a mass demolition that razed the area to a miserable plateau, or perhaps one too many lightning strikes singed the meagre vegetation still left. (As if he does not know exactly what caused such dull plains to arise throughout the world)

He hears conversation from a far, far-away land and the sound of boots sinking in the squelching soil, still not dry after the long, tumultuous storm. Germans? No, the more he focuses on the bellowing, the more he recognises the sounds as English. 

He’s just so tired. 

England closes his eyes and imagines distant fantastical lands and the warmth of a hearth as he peacefully reads a novel. He imagines the smell of bound and old leather and the crisp scent of cream paper as the crackle of fire in the background keeps him warm. He imagines peace and his friends, happily conversing as if nothing has happened. As if they have not killed millions. As if they have never had war. Happily sitting in an office and discussing issues, chaotically but without violence. He imagines quiet.

Black and quiet and black and quiet and _everything hurts._

But then it didn’t _and nothing makes sense anymore._

Everything is a bloody mess and he knows it. 

Suddenly, the surroundings turn strange and he can see the stranger wearing the white mask turning to talk to what he can make out to be a woman in a nurse’s uniform. His voice is confident but soft, making vague hand gestures as he speaks - a doctor, he’s certain. (Why is a doctor here? What happened?). 

He feels a sharp prick on his arm and the fog in his mind grows thicker and thicker. 

_Sedative…_

England briefly threads together the thought before drowning into the stygian night his mind yearns for.

___-___

He can hear tap-tap-tapping on the floor beneath him. He can hear the rush of whispered voices and the soft clinks of instruments. He can hear the cries and weeping and everything else that goes on around him.

But he isn’t _awake._

His thoughts aren’t properly formed and he can’t connect the dots in a pattern that he feels should seem obvious to him. He can barely concentrate on anything at all and it frustrates him. 

So he sleeps. He forgoes opening his eyes and returns to slumber as quickly as possible. The bright light hurts, afterall. 

He can barely remember his own name. His mind is a hedge maze, in which he explores leisurely, not bothered by what lies outside that realm. Sometimes, a ray of light shines into his domain, and everything hurts again. He remembers duties and such, but responsibility doesn’t sound necessary at the moment. 

In his whimsical mind, all he wants is to sleep, and sleep, and sleep. Because as long as he sleeps, he can avoid everything.

Besides, nothing really stands out as ‘important’. Not yet.

He has a feeling he’s supposed to be someone powerful, or something. He doesn’t know. Nothing pops out to him.

“How is he? Is England gonna be okay?”

En-gland? In-ge-lend? Two syllables, or three? The word sounds eerily familiar, like the address of a childhood home, or the name of a distant acquaintance. He can’t quite place a finger on it.

The voice, however, drives his curiosity. It sounds chipper and young, but it’s also laced with a sort of desperation. By comparison, everyone else sounds dull and mundane. In the first time in what feels like an eternity, he’s interested.

He can hear a furious rush of footsteps followed by the scraping of a chair on the concrete floor (How does he know the floor is concrete?). The man sighs, taking a deep breath in, followed by a long exhale. He seems tired, far more tired than he should be. 

He can feel something like a switch flick inside him.

“And you call me the idiot, stupid England…”

England… Ah, that’s right. He remembers again.

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Immortal nation and coloniser of basically everything.

He shifts slightly in the bed. Englend (no, it’s land. L-A-N-D) feels the bright lights hitting him and squirms. He doesn’t want to wake up.

And that is America.

The United States of America.

Immortal nation, professional twat, and obnoxiously number one.

...Beloved younger brother.

Rebellious, and annoying, but beloved little brother.

“You are such an absolute idiot, you know that? And then you yell at me for doing something stupid… You suck, dude…”

What happened? England feels his brain regressing to a prior, foggier state and immediately despises it. He hates not knowing what’s happening and thinks of every possible way to escape the mist his brain is beginning to trap him in again.

He thinks and thinks and then the obvious thing hits him-

He forces his eyes open and shove himself up straight, gasping for air as if he was just drowning. The bright light assaults him without mercy and England’s eyes scream. His abdomen begins to burn again, and a wave of memories flood him.

They return to him in what feels like the snapping frames of an old film, and along with it, comes a bursting headache. His left hand instinctively slams onto his temple, massaging it roughly to try and stop the pain, his breath escaping in harsh, shallow gasps.

_In, out, in, out, in out..._

His mind repeats this like a mantra, and time seems to go in slow motion as he focuses on nothing but the sound of his heaving breath. His abdomen spasms at the sudden flurry of movements.

“En-Britain, hey, you okay?”

England simply glares at the obviously dumb question. America smirks cheekily, but England notices the tinges of relief in his expression. America’s grin only widens and his sky blue eyes begin to sparkle.

“The Evil Queen is such a good villain in Walt’s version.”

This conversation again? Well, obnoxious as he is, at least he’s consistent.

“She is not. Is not nearly evil enough.”

“So is.”

“Is not.”

“Is.”

“Is not.”

“Is.”

“Is not.”

“Is not.”

“Is-”

America bites his tongue before the end of the word, and slams his face into his hands. England makes a triumphant ‘ha’ and smirks in his petty victory.

“Anyway, did you wake up for me, Sleeping Beauty?” 

It’s a tease not without mirth.

 _What?_ England is rather pleased that the idiot even knows who Sleeping Beauty is, but he can still feel his cheeks burn and a scowl form on his face (He knew it would be a short-lived victory - darn!).

“Of course not, you git! And what are you doing here anyway?”

America chuckles to himself, scratching the crook of his neck in the manner of one who is embarrassed. Still, he ignores the query and moves on to other topics.

Things like ration supply or the development of new ammunition, things that America shamelessly admits to finding inane. 

England chides him about such feelings (though he doesn’t believe it for a second), and America pokes out his tongue and looks away in an act of childish pouting.

His eyes tell a different story. The heavy bags underneath threaten to swallow his face, and the bomber jacket he wears is dirty beyond belief. His attire in general is unbefitting of one of his station.

England isn’t exactly in any position to scold either, considering the teal hospital gown that he has on.

Still, America’s expression worries him (And the words that he spoke before... Were those a dream? Even more, if they were reality). Wars have always taken a toll on everyone, but even more-so with this one. 

(The Great War was never supposed to repeat itself. So why? So why?!-)

The last Allies meeting was not one a pleasant one to be at. 

Everybody is at their wits’ end, and nothing is working. Nobody wants this war anymore, but yet they are here, every single one of them, stuck in the same sinking boat.

It’s appalling.

“Hey… If there’s anything worrying you… You can always ask me for advice.”

America’s eyes widen in surprise for a split second, before reverting to his normal, cavalier expression. He laughs openly once again, voicing out his amusement,

“Seriously, Britain? What is this, a scene from a TV show?”

This usually is enough for England to bite back a snarky insult, or to storm off in a fit, forgetting his initial concern completely (It’s America who chose to leave him, so why does he care at all?). His muscles tense and he feels a twinge of annoyance. Still, he looks directly into America’s eyes.

“No, I’m serious.”

.

.

“Haha, sure! Gotcha, Britain!”

England takes that as an answer. What else is he supposed to do? His stomach does a funny dance of relief, and now his brain wants him to retire to sleep.

America seems to notice, as suddenly his palm slams against England’s forehead and shoves him down into a resting position. 

“Get some rest Britain. We have a war to win, so you better not ditch us last minute.”

England mumbles some mild protest and insult under his breath but relents easily, too drowsy not to. Sweet slumber calls his name as soon as his head hits the pillow and he responds. Nothing follows him this time - no dreams, no fantasies, no pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I want to thank Neha so much for helping me beta-read and edit my story!! Please check out her [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/nehadotart/), she's great at art!
> 
> I have no idea how to operate AO3, haha, so any advice or critique is deeply appreciated :)
> 
> Comments are always amazing to receive, too!!


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